Sunset on the River and the City
The earth wears August
like a cameo necklace:
pearl and coral and burnished gold
Not white, not pink, not the yellow gold of the daffodils.
She has taken off the rubies of July
and removed the turquoise bracelet of June
Now the cameo rests against her skin;
the landscape is at its brownest,
which blurs with the not-gold chain
and makes prettier the un-pink sunset
and electrifies the pearl
It is her favorite piece-
it both ebbs from her and flares out, this
dying, proud badge of the cavalier season.
Soon she will exchange it for September's wooden beads
and the dry clack of them around her wrist,
but it is August for another night
and she bares her skin to wear it.
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War Meal
i forgot my bread,
chose coffee instead of wine
& began to starve
Then, thirsty and weak,
i drilled for food and lashed out
at small hands that reached.
Yearning turned me mad:
i broke the bodies of foes,
spilled the blood of friends.
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Labor Day Night Drive
Strangled in a tattered red ribbon,
braided with a gleaming white—
everyone missing from the rear-view now
and no one in the windshield.
Desert on Left,
cows on Right
cop in the corner.
Wish I were a trucker,
it would make this okay.
Thank God for Steinbeck making ribbons out of rope.
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Remember the wind?
We had to duck into a Barnes and Noble
just to get a grip.
And when we stepped out,
well,
fuck the grip!—the wind never noticed us.
Blew us all over the city,
all over the week,
to that lake-with-no-shore
(but it had an iceberg)
and the zoo without an entrance.
And that tiny apartment with nothing
but stifling heat and piles of books and
7-11 cups to make it his home and our Holiday Inn.
No photos,
everything intimate tucked away for preserving in
his lifesized safe-deposit box with pockets.
We were giants in a glass museum,
but out in the city,
children at the sea.
The grip was three peacoats in the park,
a camera passed between the mittens.
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For Love of Blame
The rain cannot be blamed.
It is simply completing the bio-divine
assignment
handed out in homeroom.
But some hurl stones at it,
those with leaking shoes
and flattened curls and
gleeful, shaking-off dogs,
who have no time for school
nor need for instruction.
They pound their arrogance into
fist-sized globs of glass-breaking
and drop everything on the
washed pavement—
purse, leash, briefcase, shoes—
and stand and scream and stomp
and throw as many as fast as they can,
their rain-stones, each bullet with
ME stamped in the side by their palm-prints.
I see them do this as they drive in
parking-lot-circles and as they
stand at the atm and when the soaking
boy takes hold of their groceries and zips
up his red and blue windbreaker.
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Friday’s Communion, Senior High Camp
Wrapped in the gossamer
of a warm morning,
we trudged through the dust
huddled around styrofoam coffee
and scripture
Scattered among benches
we sat inside ourselves
quiet
as Gideon conquered Midean with a cry
In celebration,
we passed peace
embracing those we just met
embracing those we did not know
embracing those we loved
freely imparting what was not ours to give
We confessed wrongs against God and man
and begged forgiveness and daily bread
and then mercy filled our mouths
Still we sat, not ready to leave the table or
the divine and humble company—
however scattered
Lips, still tingling from the wine,
opened
and spoke praise over and over
and then a wind filled the space
slowly stirring banners at first as
sleepy and modest voices rose,
growing robust as voice followed voice,
rushing to speak glory to the One who was listening,
then thrusting the banners aside to enter the place
and fill it and fill us and fill the spaces in between the voices
until there was no room for anything
but Holiness
and us.
We left as we came—
individually and assorted,
our coffee cups cold
our faces warm
our hair tousled
as if by a wind.
------------
Halloween:
when children can wear their heroes’ shoes
and their fantasy’s crown,
be bigger than a nightmare
and turn a monster into nothing but a mask.
The curtain call for every play day
and dress-up rehearsal,
all the world a fabulously dressed guest,
a sparkling and ghoulish theatergoer.
Each takes her turn, then his,
emerging from offstage as the
Mistress Goddess Queen of Glamour Herself
and the King Dragon Slayer Captain Triumph.
At the last call, to the applause of a thousand
bronze-armed trees and the grinning glee of
each glowing pumpkin face,
they rise
red and blue capes, broomsticks and rocketshoes,
fairy wings and wands swirling breathlessly
into the red carpet sky, snapped clean by
the admiring wind.
They shine,
and light up the night of the last great show of the season.
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Crucifixion
Let Forever begin
with the faith of one
and the obedience of
a death accepted.
Let the wine be blood
and the bread be body for a day,
a dark grey beautiful day,
of slaughtered lambs
and mourning and hiding.
Let the curtain tear
and the earth tremble,
let the sun be veiled
and the tomb prepared.
Let Forever begin.
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The Blossoming
The first rain changed everything into red,
the second swept it all down,
the third was bleach
and now it rains old dishwater.
Pink cars turned rust,
blue buildings turned stone,
green turned tan.
I watch out the window and
even the fire trucks are sodden,
begging to be wrung out.
But the paint flows on
and delightful things are soaked into it
and disappear completely,
drowning almost before their
voices have faded.
I know, though, that I can chip
a little bit away,
put a hole in the rain grey surface
and let the bright in.
I think of Friday
and a line of color starts,
I think of your lime green house
and your kitty and I can see
the line is spreading and
absorbing the calm.
I think of games and absurdities
and the warm brush of alcohol
and everybody strapped for cash
and now I know what color it is that
has so annihilated the grout-colored day—
that blazing neon sticky thickness
of the hottest lava, all red and all orange
and all everything in between at all times
filling my eyes with such vigor
that I want to open my veins and
fill them with its dazzling rush.
And just like that, it is Oz outside.
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Flamenco
Red lips red flowers in black hair
black dress black shoes
(such shoes! they looked so plain...)
He with black vest black pants
(i didn't know pants moved that way)
black boots that shouted everytime
they touched the wood
except when they didn't.
Except when the rhythm changed
and they and she went silent-
turning stepping twisting with no sound,
a slow-motion action sequence
all over the wood floor,
feet as quiet as her turning wrist
and arching arm and the bend of her neck
against the red and the black
but there were sounds,
the white hands scattered on the caramel guitar
spinning so fast i thought bright crimson swipes
would stain the hands and neck
and the singer clapped (clapped all night!)
while his eyebrows voice and sister danced,
never such harmony as came from hands
(a complete orchestra:guitar+voice+hands)
now he clapped three times
her eyes opened:white lights in the olivebrown landscape
the silence stopped
and everything exPLODED!:those shoes andthe boots beatthefloor as it SHOUTED
they shouted and clapped as
he sang out! and clapped as
the unbleeding hands pounded music from steel
she whipped up her skirts to show off her shoes
and the pants and the boots grinned mischief
nothing to dodge and all the floor to shatter
no air in the room not painted with sound
it went on and on, the never ending crescendo,
Our cheeks bliss-pink from thrills simple and gorgeous,
lips red from the wine,
or the fantasy
of her red flower
between our teeth as we danced
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Childrearing
Violence on violence—
makes sense to me;
a great life lesson
for all the kids to see.
Someone does you wrong?
Counter with a bomb!
Punishment is Death,
Peace—a waste of breath.
Surprised to hear the sound
of dying on the playground?
Wise up, man.
You can’t shake hands
‘til you put your gun down.
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the adoring sun
lighted no longer
upon its back
the gentle birds
held songs in
iron silent throats
the delicate stars
stood solid in
the flat black sky
the embracing wind
stayed folded away
in a cave of rest
the loving Lord
walked not through
the fair evening,
for the lovers
had left,
and